Jackaby Stories

18. I'm Sorry

Warning: Kind of sad, short.

Jackaby stared at the street in front of him, unmoving. The sun was shining brightly, but he didn't feel it. The world was cold now. He stepped out the door and wove his way around the crowds on the street. Ordinary people. Not like Abigail.

The doors of the run down church were open, but Jackaby strode past them, eyes fixed on the lot of gray half ovals behind it. The gate squealed as it was forced open, rust flaking onto Jackaby's hands, and he didn't bother brushing it off. Winding around the tombstones, he sank blankly to his knees at the foot of the newest tombstone and dragged a hand down his face, shoving his hair out of his eyes.

This was just another normal morning for Jackaby. He stared wordlessly at the name on the stone.

Abigail Rook

He sighed before speaking.

"I miss you. God, I miss you. Nothing's the same, honestly not even me. I didn't know something could physically hurt this much, I almost don't want to wake up anymore. Everything's faded, dull, boring. People are so... average. Predictable. I wish you were here. I guess I miss you so much because I loved you. I do love you, still."

"I never told you, I was a coward. I wish I had. Every day. And I'm sorry that I wasn't fast enough, that I wasn't smart enough or strong enough or brave enough to save you. It's been about two months now... And I still can't believe you're really gone. I'm sorry. It's selfish, I know, that I want you here. Even though- especially though it's my fault you're gone. I'm so sorry." Jackaby laughed quietly, sadly, swiping away the tears that had fallen. "Oh, Abigail. If only I had told you sooner."

He stood up and pushed his way out of the gate again, wiping the rust onto his pants and keeping his head up, face frozen into a mask of indifference. He was broken on the inside.

Life is like a clock. It ticks, and ticks, and ticks, never going back. But even clocks break, when something stops even the second hand. It keeps ticking, but doesn't move, winding up the gears on the inside until it pops, then snaps, then breaks into pieces. And without Jackaby, every hand on his clock had been stopped, frozen in place.

And he was breaking.